


A little death in the garden

by orphan_account



Series: Roleswap AU [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Demon!Aziraphale, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Outdoor Sex, Raphael!Crowley, Roleswap, Roleswap AU, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), angel!Crowley, obligatory la petite mort, reverse au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-09-26 01:44:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20381641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: A decision. Yes or no, right or wrong. Truth and lie. And there is nothing but dark, delicious, devouring sincerity in those demon eyes.Let me.And how to refuse the thing that lurks when finally it pounces. And oh sopolitely, too.





	A little death in the garden

**Author's Note:**

> *puts my clown wig on* eyup couldn't stay away from these two, this au is a lotta fun and sometimes you need to bang out a few thousand of self indulgent porn.
> 
> A Few Notes:
> 
> again, character clarification, angel crowley is Raphael, and demon az is called Staerling (and Stalker in his siamese cat animal form), credit for that bastardous design to my partner as per
> 
> unbeta'd also as per, if you see mistakes, lmk please, also sorry if pacing seems off, i slamt this out in two nights and i cba reading it over again like, a fifth time
> 
> there are multiple anachronisms, i realize that, except i also have a degree in doing what i want with literature, so you cannot stop me
> 
> the lack of non-fetishy trans crowley fic is appalling to say the least, so that's to clarify this is not some creepy nonsense going on here, take that Elsewhere tyvm, nor is crowley "female" nor is he genderfluid. he's a nb gay man if that's not your cuppa, you're invited to go
> 
> lastly, i can see this expanding as a collection of oneshots, so im filing it under its own little series tag for ease (not chronologies sake, just to keep it all somewhere), which is to say, there will be more bc im a thirsty bitch, and by all means feel free to request something in the comments
> 
> ___________________________________________________________________________________________________

Of the demon’s proclivities toward pleasure, Raphael has sussed out marginally few. Much in spite of the way Staerling rails on and on about the delicious fruits of the garden or the warmth of sunbaked earth beside the spring where he’s always keen to lounge in his feline form, there’s been something forever lurking in every sly dig he’s thrown the angel’s way. Every time he goads Raphael to abandon his post, waste an afternoon wandering the lusher glades, go find that dear little airhead Eve with her insatiable penchant for gossip instead of grimacing through prayer all the time, something lingers only ever suggested. And hardly even that. Something donned. Yes that’s it. A veneer for more devastating truths Staerling has chosen to ferret away. And only now does he expose them. And it is, well… _ devastating _.

“Raphael,” the demon murmurs, pushing aside the fathoms of folds of cloud-plume silk that enshrines his trembling body. 

And then, with a reverence Raphael has not heard even among the most celestial tongues of Heaven, a vehemence so venerable it hisses sin incarnate, “Let me worship you.”

The din of insects around them, hidden always hidden in the foliage. The grass beneath his back where Staerling has lain him, delicately crushed against his thin-jutting shoulder blades. The trickle of sun between the branches overhead, freckle dust atop the leaves and the ivory halo of curls encircling Staerling’s head. The grip of his claws. The set of his jaw. The grin and glower and smug curl of the corners of his mouth. Details details, and all of them missed until now, as Raphael fails to find breath, to blink, to have only this moment and the words - battering ram blasphemy - careening between his ears, stumbling blindly for deliberation. A decision. Yes or no, right or wrong. Truth and lie. And there is nothing but dark, delicious, devouring sincerity in those demon eyes. 

_ Let me _. 

And how to refuse the thing that lurks when finally it pounces. And oh so _ politely_, too.

A flicker of iris, that cobalt eclipse, as pupils blow wide. Understanding. Too clever for his own good, for Them Up There. Too unapologetic. And there is nothing remorseful, then, about the way he - demon Stalker Staerling _ demon _ \- lowers himself, brackets a forearm beside Raphael’s head, and threads with his other sword sharp fingers a hand through the angel’s hair.

“You will,” he says. Not a question. Said he was done with those, anyway, had all the answers he needed, that it was time to seek _ other _ resolutions. Raphael had never known what to make of that. Now he wonders if he could be that for him. A resolve. A completion. If he could bring his demon a measure of peace.

“You _ will _.”

A demand now, razor tight as Staerling grips a merciless fistful of the angel’s hair, guides him slowly, _ agonizing _, upright, sets his too-sharp mouth a small eon from Raphael’s. Just a tilt of the chin could send them tumbling, pitching down together. Raphael takes a step toward it.

“Yes,” he breathes. And he closes his eyes and impales himself on the kiss. 

Brutality was not unknown to Raphael before the unlikely happenstance of his demonic companion. He could not exist without it, without knowing it. One needs the antithesis to prove the adversarial point. To Staerling, Raphael is that adversary, a thwarting presence, an incarnation of good and righteous everything. A paragon of Heaven. 

So yes, Raphael knows of brutality. Oh, but it’s all the more simple in theory, isn’t it. And there’s very little of that Up There to explain the agonizing bliss it is to yield oneself, the mouth the throat the very air in the lungs, to the kiss of a demon. 

“You will let me,” Staerling growls when they part, as fervent an iteration as the hymns that echo endless through the cavernous reaches of Heaven. “Let me taste you, fill you, _ have you _.”

“Yes, _ yes _,” Raphael keens, tries throwing back his head, finds himself stymied by the hand still anchored there, tugging and hurting, held so he cannot turn away from the blunt teeth Staerling sinks into his lower lip, drawing up the silver ichor in his pulse, swallowing it down, staining the tongue he buries back again in Raphael’s gasp.

“You will let yourself know pleasure,” this the demon promises in bruises, a bejeweled line of succor red and purple flaring to the surface of Raphael’s throat. “You will let me give it to you.” 

“_Yes _,” pleads the angel, and unloosens his own blunt hands from their tearing grip on the grass, and instead pulls at the demon’s robes. 

“Please _ please _,” he begs, and welcomes the cloud of white that steals his vision as Staerling laves his tongue over the shell of his ear.

“I never would have kept you waiting, Archangel,” he says, “if I had known.”

Nor would Raphael have denied himself, had _ he _ known. There were times, flirtations amidst their banter, but mostly he concerned himself with the hopes of bringing the demon back to the light, closer to home, helping him heal his Fallen wounds. But unwavering were they both, stone set to be opposites, fitted at one juncture and the rest of their puzzling relationship to span ever incomplete into infinitude. Oh, but if he had just _ known_. Might it have saved so much time.

So he wastes little now, making what quick work he can with the demon’s own silks - still white for the joke of it all - and the press of heat slick skin to skin inundates a fresh riptide of sensation through to the marrow of Raphael’s core. 

“_ Staerling _,” he groans, and surges up, his spine uncurling from the earth, the mountain range of his ribs, his hips, the valley of his frail stomach, searching out the soft warmth of the demon’s flesh, his body ample, all luscious curves filled out by remorseless enjoyment. He stays there, Raphael, against the demon, held there as Staerling at last releases his hair and grips that cruel hand at the small of the angel’s back. 

They had both seen Eve like this, arching for Adam. Raphael had blushed at the sight, the sounds, and troubled over the images for days as Staerling offered only clever smiles worse than any lewd comment. And those images ripened themselves to others, other beings borne of a template of the natural, the innate. But these others, of a demon, an angel. Surely that was not good. Surely that was not nature. But here he is now, the angel Raphael writhing beneath the demon Staerling, in bold relief of his own shameful desires, prone on his back, legs spread for one Fallen, shuddering and whimpering and aching. 

“Do use your words, dear,” Staerling offers through the haze of it, those aeons-away memories though it’s been a meager few weeks at most since Raphael came to recognize what it was he so craved. 

Unwavering, then, he entreats, “Touch me, demon.”

And Staerling, unyielding, readily obliges.

He starts, as he always does, with those fearsomely tantalizing claws, rakes them down Raphael’s sternum, traipsing each rib and each hollow, with a sing of stinging heat. The angel’s first glimpse of them had been but a brief flash, a momentary horror until they were pressed to his throat, taunting smile to match, always a game with this demon, even upon their first meeting. Oh he’d never meant any harm - never does - it’s the implication, angel. Well… he implies very much now, and more still, pressing them in, marking scarlet down _ down _ along the milk and honey of Raphael’s delicate flesh. He was not conceived for battle, did not receive the impenetrable diamond bones of the soldiers. The scholarly, the saged, the sit-at-the-foot-of-the-throne-and-bask, they are more gossamer than cloud vapor, woven by dew, and Staerling, expert Fallen demon, finds every frayed thread and plucks it free, unraveling Raphael as he descends the jagged slopes of his body. 

“Where,” he at last asks, agonizing inches from the ache between Raphael’s thighs. “Tell me where.”

“Please,” whispers the angel, and dares to caress his demon’s face, curls a diaphanous palm against his cheek.

“Well if you won’t tell me,” teases Staerling, and digs two claws into Raphael’s thigh, “I suppose I’ll just have to improvise, hm?” 

Raphael could weep for the frustration of that sentence alone, but then he’s really not grasped yet just how perceptive the demon is. But as Staerling averts his gaze, casts it down, and then follows suit with the rest of his head, exhales a steam of sighs, lets his head lower more and - oh… o-_ oh oh my, Go-I-ssomeone-d-demon-!_

“Mm, there we are, love,” Staerling purrs against him, and presses again an impossibly wide tongue, laving Raphael’s cunt with a single, deft undulation, wickedly tightening and tapering it to flick cruelly against his clit. 

“Divine,” he breathes between a succession of several, unbearable laps. 

_ Heresy_, gasps the last vestiges of angelic propriety in Raphael’s mind, but it’s swiftly silenced as Staerling licks inside him, flicks up again. A scrape of the teeth - 

The sound that issues of the angel is one heretofore unuttered by any other on this naive, new earth. A hitched little whimper intermingled with the mangled syllables of a demon’s name. Evidently, Staerling likes it, and makes a rhythm of that movement, drawing out every note from the symphony of Raphael’s pleasure. 

It’s vastly too much all at once, for a being unversed in this, and Raphael, whining and twisting and thrashing for a completion he cannot even conceive of, finds it a moment later, with grass blades stuck to the sweat of his spine, with dappled leaves whispering overhead, with earth-smell and salt and the perfume of a demon’s triumph filling the glade around them. With the tension snap between his legs, and a wail between his lips, a broken sound, a dashed upon the sea cliffs and shattered to the winds sound. A graceless_, gracious _sound.

“_ Staerling _,” he heaves, staccato on each syllable, but chokes around the last one as the demon carves through the bliss of his moan with a viper-strike kiss, his clever tongue prying apart the meager air in Raphael’s throat and filling the angel’s mouth with the ambrosial taste of himself. 

“_ More _,” Staerling mutters, and the claws cincture, now, around Raphael’s right thigh, prying, pulling, pushing it wide, and wider still, pinning it to the ground. 

Raphael does not think he can endure such a thing, his limbs still wracked with the ghostly tremors of his climax, but Staerlilng does not permit him an opinion, a refusal, anything beyond a few sparse pulls of air when he bows his head to incise more bruises along the angel’s collarbones. He returns, dutifully, to the searing heat of their kiss, concurrently letting go of Rapahel’s thigh and wanders his hand up - that trailing tease again.

“Relax,” he hisses, as Raphael jolts, stilling the movements of the two fingers he’s dragged over the angel’s slick cunt. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“I-” begins Raphael, but abandons the meager protest - the “too fast” of it - for a pathetic, lost keen, eyes fluttering closed, jaw going slack, as Staerling slips those fingers inside of him, curls up - blessedly clawless - and massages in tight circles.

“There we are,” hears the angel distantly, but only can savor so much. 

Staerling, for his part, seems intent on making sure he is aware of this new and shivering pleasure alone. His tongue brought sweetness, sparks of it. His fingers bring too much without hope of surmounting the peak, a tremor that races down to his toes, up his scalp, locks his legs wide so he cannot writhe away, can only lay sprawled and receive what Staerling wishes to inflict.

“You’re a vision, love.

“How you were never given to this…”

The demon’s sighs blanket the scorching skin behind Raphael’s ear, his shallow pants finding cadence with the delicate thrusts of his fingers.

“_ Staerling _ ,” Raphael manages, amidst a sob. “Demon, _ please _, I - I cannot - I do not deserve -”

Staerling silences him, a sink of fanged teeth to his neck.

“_ Never _,” he growls, a feral promise, “never demand of me such things, Archangel.” 

“Then share with me,” defies Raphael, pinning Staerling’s startled gaze with his watery own, a vision of tears fracturing the demon to so many iterations of himself. “Have me. Take all of what you want.”

_ Just do not leave me alone in this, _ he does not say. Cannot. Could never. The sheer _ sin _ of it all. Permitting the company of a demon, a friendship, was dangerous enough. Craving it, starving for it, sick at the heart for the _ want _of it… surely he should Fall from that alone. Surely, then, Staerling should know this, and should share in the fear of it, the exhilaration. The unknown. If he is to bring this angel to a supplication of sin, he should be the one to hold his wrists as he topples to his knees. 

“Raphael -”

“_ Please _.”

On his back. The trees, the grass. The din-ful insects. The virgin sun. The ripe and rotten. Fingers and tongue, teeth and gnash and bruisebloom beauty. _ Please please please._

Until a demon relents. And an angel succumbs, fully. And both - the antitheses, the displaced, the missed by a mile but ellipsed back round again - forget together, finding familiarity only now in each other, in the heat slick of body to body, one inside another, throbbing, filling, urging to an edge of pain and a glorious, exquisite pleasure. 

“_ Raphael _,” chokes Staerling, his composure abandoned for a reverential moan. 

“Please,” exhales Raphael, and permits the tears to fall when Staerling - blessed, burned, beautiful demon - moves, fills him, fits their bodies into one. 

“I’d forge temples to you, Archangel.”

Pulls back, slides from the wet heat of him, fucks back into him. Cruel, beautiful.

“Compose prayers to your pleasure.”

Brings that deft hand between them, rubs his thumb to Raphael’s clit.

“Your disciple, and so much to show you, to - to _ give _ you.”

He thrusts, sublime of measure and force, wrenches another groan from Raphael’s chest, swallows it down. Another molten kiss.

“Let me, Raphael, let me. _ Let me. _”

“I - I have,” pleads the angel, and sobs as the demon’s pace finds brutal - brutal _ brutal _ \- fervor. “I have I have I am I _ amIampleasepleasepleaseple- _.”

He loses sight, finds only filtering flittering black, feels a pressure round his throat. Finds the demon’s hand there. Here’s his guttural growls. Feels his cock, in and in again and again, surging shocks through his thighs. Feels it building. Hear’s the wet of it, the sweat and slick. Hears himself gasping. 

_ Please._

_ Burn with me, Archangel. _

And feels Staerling release, feels him spilling inside. Weathers the tear of teeth at his shoulder for it, the _ brutalbrutalbrutal _ snap of his hips, still taking him, still claiming him, still filling him. Yields his body for this demon. Gives all of himself, breaks himself asunder, taking all that is given, all that is beyond the pleasure, all that is shattering down from its suspension, all that is the demon atop him, inside him, buried, now, in the heart of him.

“_ Lord above _,” Staerling curses, around his bite of Raphael’s broken flesh, kisses away the blood welling from his shoulder. 

Raphael, hoarse and not terribly convinced he’s corporeal, manages, “Please let’s not bring Her into this.”

“No,” Staerling hums, then props himself on his elbows, gives a languid thrust back into Raphael’s well used cunt. “Never been keen on sharing, me.”

“Fiend,” breathes the angel, and gnaws his swollen lower lip to savor the over-sensitivity.

“That I am, dear,” grins the demon, and bends low for a kiss, still lazily rocks into him. 

“You’ve made a mess of me, demon,” a comment Raphael offers through nips of teeth and tastes of tongue as Staerling’s movements encourage the thick spill of his seed to trickle down, further, between his thighs.

“That I have.”

_ And us _, Raphael does not say. There is much of that for them, and much in the way it could culminate. And now he knows the thrill in it, the answer to that ever elusive “could”. Presently, it is gazing down at him, blood-blue eyes appraising him. 

“Don’t worry, dear. You’ll love it down here with me.”

“Presumptive of you, demon,” admonishes Raphael, but still makes no effort to extricate himself from beneath Staerling, fails even to close his legs for a modicum of decency.

“The definition, Archangel,” Staerling sneers, and, oh, his hand again, the heel of his palm this time. That perfect,_ perfect _pressure. 

Oh… _ ohh _.

“There we are,” coos Staerling a third time. Enough, and Raphael suspects he might come from that praise alone. It’s the implication, after all. The temptation.

And as a demon lures in again his angel, tastes and touches and carves pleasure out from his body, into the rich soil of the garden, taking blighted root, rots the first sliver of Raphael’s resolve. Rather, he plants it there, himself. 


End file.
